Three fire trucks and a command van just left our house, and all we were trying to do was wash the dishes.
The Husband and Younger Son were upstairs getting ready for bed. I’d already brushed my teeth and washed my face and had come back downstairs to do a few yoga stretches. I was in Downward Writer when I heard three odd pops that were not coming from my knees or shoulders but from the kitchen. I went to investigate, thinking something had fallen off the wall…and found black smoke pouring from the dishwasher vents.
I hustled to the circuit breaker to shut off the power to the dishwasher, ran back upstairs to open a window, and when the smoke kept smoking and something started to glow red where there should not have been a red glow–because, hello, there was no juice going into the dishwasher–I phoned 911. Relatively calmly, if I do say so myself.
When the firefighters arrived, they quickly determined that two of the trucks and the command vehicle could return to the station. The firefighters who remained took apart the dishwasher’s very, very warm instrument panel, located the melted wires, determined that the emergency was over with, and went on their way after assuring me several times that I had done just the right thing by cutting the power and calling them.
At least it happened when we were at home.
And the firefighters were there when we needed them. We’ll remember that in December when the property tax bill comes.
And best of all, it was only the dishwasher, not the air conditioner.
© 2012 Anne Bingham and Making It Up as I Go